


Jeremy Bearimy

by vintagenoise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Heaven, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27751084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagenoise/pseuds/vintagenoise
Summary: I'll find you in the dot of the 'i'.(or, Dean finds Cas in Heaven, Cas explains some things, and the author is obsessed with the concept of non-linear time.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 27
Kudos: 135





	Jeremy Bearimy

**Author's Note:**

> The title (and summary) are a reference to The Good Place: Time in the afterlife moves in a way that happens to look like the name "Jeremy Bearimy" in cursive English; the dot of the 'i' contains Tuesdays, July, and the time where nothing never occurs. When Bobby told Dean that time moves differently in Heaven, I immediately connected it to Jeremy Bearimy, even though it's not really mentioned by name in the fic itself. That, plus some theories about what happened to Cas, led to this fic. 
> 
> [mrhd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhd) was kind enough to beta this for me!

Cas is wearing overalls.

It’s the first thing Dean notices, as he pulls up to the house. Overalls and blue plaid, rooting around in the dirt by the front porch steps, like a suburban dad on Sunday morning. 

The image is strange, and unexpected. Not just because Dean has only seen Cas outside a suit maybe twice, tops, but when Dean arrived here, when Bobby told him that Cas had helped Jack with this new design, Dean had assumed that meant Cas was still an angel, maybe something more.

Angels don’t wear overalls and dig in the dirt with their bare hands. And they don’t stake out little Craftsman-style homes, pale green with a wrap-around porch, and a literal white picket fence. Not even in Heaven. 

Angel or not, Dean knows that Cas has heard him approach. Baby runs like she’s fresh off the line up here, and she announces his arrival everywhere he goes, to the point that everyone he’s visited so far has come to greet him before he has a chance to get out of the car. Charlie had leapt into the passenger side before he could pull the keys out of the ignition, demanding an apology for dying in service to the Winchester Cause, then more demands to hear what happened next. 

Cas doesn’t even turn around. He reaches, sightless, for a potted plant and pulls it closer, in front of him. He doesn’t even flinch when Dean turns the engine off. He keeps digging, determination in the line of his shoulders. 

If he didn’t know any better, Dean would think this was Jimmy Novak, but as luck would have it, he does know better. He saw Jimmy and Amelia with his own eyes, not too long ago. Their home is out on the edges of the space Dean travels, closer to their own loved ones than to Dean’s, but Dean had sought them out anyway. He wanted to make sure they knew that Claire is loved and being taken care of. They had been grateful, but it had been a short visit nonetheless. 

Jimmy keeps his hair neat and wears sweaters, even though it’s never cold. He carries himself comfortably, and looked at Dean with polite, distant interest. Even if they look the same, there’s no confusing Cas for Jimmy, or vice versa. Not for Dean, anyway.

Dean gets out of the car and closes the door. Still no reaction. He leans against Baby’s side, arms resting on her roof, to watch for a moment longer, curious and annoyed and curiously, annoyingly fond. Heaven isn’t a play-by-play of best memories anymore, but sometimes Dean gets hit by the golden light of nostalgia anyway. He remembers when Cas was briefly human, watching him just like this through the window at work. And he remembers when Cas came back from the dead, standing at the payphone with his back to the road, ready for his dramatic reveal in the spotlight.

He remembers the buoyant feeling in his chest in both of those moments, the way spending time with Cas gradually started to always feel that way, and he thinks,  _ You dumbass. _

Cas pauses to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, then rests both hands on his knees, shoulders hunched. He still doesn’t turn around, and Dean’s not ready to put him out of his misery just yet. 

Bobby was right: time does move differently here, so Dean can’t speak to days or months or years, but he’s set up a home of his own, and he’s seen everyone else he could possibly want to see, including some others who have arrived after he did. Cas never dropped by. Not at Dean’s place, or at the Roadhouse, or any of the other places Dean has found himself whiling the beautiful days away. Dean told himself,  _ he’s busy _ . He’s an angel, he works directly with the new God, but they have eternity now, and eventually, their eternities will have to cross. 

Then, Dean’s own mother tells him about Cas stopping by to drop off a basket of green peppers, and, when she’s confused by his confusion, Dean realizes that Cas is just... avoiding him.

Typical.

Of course Bobby knows where everyone lives, this patch of Heaven’s own Yellow Pages with a beard and a baseball cap, and when Dean finally asked, Bobby grunted, “Boy, took you long enough.”

And now he’s here. Cas’s little house with the big front porch and the white picket fence and the perfectly tended garden. Cas still hunched over in front of his new plants, in blue plaid and overalls, head hanging like he’s waiting for the executioner’s axe. 

Dean knows that he’s dead, but he can still feel his heart pounding in his chest. Nervousness. Anticipation. 

He pushes away from the car and walks up to the gate, hands in his pockets. He stops there, can see the way Cas’s shoulders tense, and shouts, “You weren’t ever gonna come see me, huh?”

Cas keeps staring at the dirt, but he surprises Dean by responding, “Soon.”

“When’s ‘soon?’”

“Soon.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his chest swells with affectionate familiarity. “So, what, you wanted me to make an appointment?”

At that, Cas finally turns to look at him, and again, Dean knows he’s dead, but he still feels his breath catch, the way it always does when he sees Cas for the first time in a while and realizes,  _ Oh, he’s gorgeous _ .

And he is. As he gets to his feet, Dean can’t help tracking the way those stupid overalls fit at his hips and thighs. Then, as he walks over to the gate, he tucks his hands in behind the chest piece and his forearms are tanned and taut, and he’s fully dressed but it’s almost indecent, after so many years of ill-fitting suits and old trenchcoats. 

“I’ve been here,” Cas says, and Dean’s eyes go back to his face. “Waiting.”

There’s a memory there, too, but Dean’s too distracted to chase it. It hits him, then: Cas is here,  _ right here _ , standing close enough to touch, squinting in the sunlight, and Dean has  _ missed _ him. He jerks forward, his body leaning in for a hug before his brain can process the request, but he just stops himself. He’s not sure if a hug would be appropriate or welcomed after… after. 

“ _ The one thing I want… it’s something I know I can’t have. _

_ Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. _

_ You changed me, Dean. _

_ I love you. _ ”

For a moment, Dean sees it all over again, the rush of inky black, the way Cas took one last look at him and smiled so serene and blissful as the Empty swallowed him up, with Billie just behind, and the absolute, haunting silence that followed, as Dean struggled to process what he’d just seen. What he’d just been told.

“Dean.”

Cas’s gentle voice shakes him loose, and he’s managed to lean across the gate and grab one of Cas’s sleeves. It’s soft, well-worn, and he rubs it between his fingers as he meets Cas’s eyes.

“How did you get out?”

Cas looks back at him for a long moment, then takes a small step back, freeing himself from Dean’s grasp. His expression is resigned as he says, “Would you like to come in?”

“Cas--”

“I’ll tell you everything,” Cas promises. “But let’s go inside first.”

He opens the gate, then leads the way towards the house without looking back. Helpless, Dean follows.

Inside the house is… well. It’s the bunker. Not as large, cut down to the most important pieces: the entryway, the library, and when Cas banks right, it’s into the galley kitchen. Dean doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; the bunker is the only real home Cas has ever known, and it’s not like Heaven forces limitations on anyone. Of course the bunker could be hidden inside a Craftsman, and of course that’s the interior Cas would have chosen. The only differences are the windows Cas has installed, sunlight streaming in, and the plants that line the walls. Dean smiles slightly, running his hand over the table as he takes it all in, then sits down, watching expectantly as Cas takes his time washing his hands.

Anything someone does in Heaven is only because they want to do it. If Ellen doesn’t feel like cleaning the bar, the bar stays clean even after a spill. If Bobby wants another beer, the cooler is refilled as soon as he removes the lid. And if Cas didn’t want his hands to be dirty, they wouldn’t be dirty. For that matter, if he wants a garden, he doesn’t need to muck around at all. It would just grow.

“I like work,” Cas says quietly, when Dean mentions this. “It’s… dignified. Satisfying.”

Dean can understand that. He’s tinkered around in Baby’s engine once or twice since getting here, even though she runs perfect. “But,” he says anyway, “you’re still an angel, too.”

Cas gives him a beseeching look, blue eyes wide. Dean waits him out until, finally, Cas takes a seat across the table and slumps forward, shaking his head. 

“Not anymore.”

Dean hesitates, again unsure of where the boundaries lie, but then he figures, Cas said he loved him, and they’re in Heaven.  _ What the hell _ . 

He reaches across the table and gently circles Cas’s wrist with his fingers. The skin is warm and rough, and Cas’s expression is indescribable, as he looks from the place where their hands are joined, to Dean’s face.

“Talk to me,” Dean says.

Cas takes a deep breath, and does.

He talks about being taken to the Empty with a smile on his face, scared and dismayed but buoyed by the joy he had allowed himself to have, and the knowledge that in speaking that joy into existence and accepting his fate, he saved the person most important to him. Except, once he gets there, he sees not just the Entity, still in Meg’s form, lounging on a throne… but Jack.

“Jack?” Dean interrupts. “But we didn’t---”

“Time moves differently,” Cas answers. 

Jack, now all-powerful and all-knowing and as all-loving as he was raised to be, told the Entity it couldn’t keep Cas. When it argued, fairly, a deal’s a deal, Jack pointed out what Cas only then started to understand: he couldn’t belong to the Empty anymore.

“The Empty has dominion over angels and demons,” Cas explains. Their hands are still resting together, a natural and grounding point of contact for them both. “But my grace was all but gone.”

“You weren’t an angel anymore,” Dean says.

“Barely.” Cas smiles, small and sweet. “Jack could see that there was more soul than grace, so he took care of the grace that was left and placed me here.”

There’s a flash of anger as Dean wonders, why not bring Cas back to Earth? Why not give him back, why not let him live a human life before sending him to Heaven, but it falters as he remembers Jack’s promise to be hands off. The constant resurrection cycle, the deals, the drive for revenge… it had to stop. Dean had accepted that. He takes a moment to reassess, to remember how things played out, what Cas told him that set the stage for how their biggest win played out:

“ _ You’re the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know. _ ” 

Dean changes direction. “He saved all of us,” he says. His grip on Cas’s wrist tightens, but Cas doesn’t pull away. “He saved everyone. The whole world. The afterlife.”

“Because of you,” Cas’s smile stretches, crinkling his eyes, but Dean shakes his head.

“Because of  _ you _ .”

Cas blinks, a little surprised, but he recovers quickly, turning away. “Anyway. That’s what happened. It’s not very interesting.” Another smile flickers. “Not like defeating the old God and raising the new one.”

“Hey, if I remember right, you helped in that raising too.” There’s a pause as they grin at each other, then Dean says, “Bobby told me you helped Jack with…” He spreads his arms out wide, gesturing at the bunker-hidden-in-a-Craftsman-built-in-a-free-open-Heaven. “All this.”

“Not physically. Metaphysically,” Cas corrects himself. “But I had ideas. Suggestions. Based on---” He cuts himself off then, staring into the distance. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think that was a blush alighting Cas’s cheekbones.

“Based on what?” He prompts. If his thumb slides over the back of Cas’s hand, it’s not intentional, but he won’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy the way Cas visibly shivers.

Cas won’t look at him, though. And it takes a moment before he quietly answers, “Based on what I thought you would want.”

Dean stills. That statement is… massive. Even knowing that Jack is who he is and therefore the God he is because of Dean and Sam and Cas’s influence, the thought that Heaven was remade with Dean in mind, through Cas’s suggestions… and it is perfect. It’s peaceful and beautiful and full of everyone that Dean has ever loved. Cas got it all exactly right. 

Dean exhales in a rush, overwhelmed, and shifts in his chair, emotion roiling through his chest. “Cas… about what you said that night…”

Cas tears his hand out of Dean’s grasp and stands, moving out of reach and back towards the sink. “We don’t have to discuss it,” Cas says. “I meant what I said. All of it. Especially that happiness isn’t in the having.” He leans against the counter, head hung low, and Dean realizes that yes, Cas looks extraordinarily human like this. “I’m glad to know that I was able to help you defeat Chuck. And that you were able to let go of your anger. But I carry no burden. I don’t need anything beyond that knowledge.”

Dean slams his hand on the table, and Cas jumps, turning to face him finally.

“You dumbass,” Dean says.

Cas frowns. “What?”

“Nobody asked you to be such a fucking martyr.”

“No one had to.”

“You’ve been carrying burdens since the night I met you, since you carried my dumb ass out of Hell,” Dean snaps. “You think I believe you when you say it now?” Cas narrows his eyes, but brokers no argument. Good. “You said you loved me.”

“Yes.” Cas straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath, like it cleanses him to speak those words. “I do.”

“That I changed you.”

Now it’s Cas’s turn to spread his arms out, gesturing at the space around them. “I doubt that I would be a human soul enjoying the peace of Heaven if I had never met you.”

That stalls Dean, somewhat, a reminder of the effect he’s had on the world, as a single, stupid human. Cas has fallen for him, multiple times, apparently in more ways than one, and that helped lead to this, a path that humbles Dean every time he thinks about it again. Still, Dean catches himself and powers through.

“You said, you couldn’t have what you wanted.”

Cas meets his gaze with a kind of defiance, wielded like a shield to protect himself. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“It’s not true.”

Cas’s steely stare wavers, just a little. “I’m sorry?”

Dean stands up from the table and walks across the kitchen until they’re standing toe-to-toe. Cas’s chest hitches, but he doesn’t look away. From this close, Dean can feel how warm he is, and memories of every hug they’ve ever shared come rushing back, an urge so strong that Dean can’t resist it, wrapping his arms around Cas’s shoulders and closing the remaining distance between them.

Cas takes a short breath, and Dean rests his head against Cas’s. He squeezes him, insistent, until the tension starts to eke out of Cas's muscles, and he circles his arms around Dean's torso in return.

"Whatever you thought you couldn't have," Dean says, "you could've had any time." 

Cas's grip tightens on the back of Dean's shirt, tugging the fabric tight against his chest, puts his face in Dean’s neck and holds on. Dean returns the gesture, just as overwhelmed. Cas was right; there’s joy just in speaking the words, bliss in accepting their truth. Dean can’t be sure when, exactly, his feelings changed. Purgatory is when everything started to become clear, when Dean had no goals except find Cas and get the hell out of there, but he’d be stupid to pretend there hadn’t been moments before. Moments where Cas looked at him and took his breath away, or said something Dean desperately needed to hear exactly when he needed to hear it, or every time he came back after disappearing without a word. 

All of it, all of their history, flashes through Dean’s mind, and even though he’s happy he finally spoke this truth aloud, something he had tucked away so deeply that it surprised him every time it found its way back, there’s anger there too. How much time were they robbed of, because of fear? Because there was always another big bad, another apocalypse to focus on instead? Because Dean couldn’t put words to how he felt, because emotions were so new to Cas that he struggled to vocalize them as well.

It’s not fair. They could’ve had a life together. They could’ve had everything. 

“Dean.” 

Cas’s voice rumbles through Dean’s chest, into his skin, and Cas lifts his head to look at Dean again, large hands coming up to frame Dean’s face. His eyes are searching Dean’s, as if he still can’t bring himself to believe what he just heard, but the brush of his thumbs across Dean’s cheekbones is so gentle it makes Dean want to cry. 

In the deepest, most hidden places of Dean’s heart, the only thing he ever wanted was to be loved. To be seen for exactly who he is, all the scars and blood and all the softness and longing, and for the entire complex package to be loved. Cas gave him that, completely, then vanished. And Dean had no choice but to keep pushing forward, to cradle Cas’s love carefully within himself and try to keep living, because that’s what Cas would have wanted. 

Then he died anyway. 

“It’s not fair,” Dean croaks. “We could’ve had this. Together. Alive.”

“When?” Cas doesn’t condescend, doesn’t placate. His nose brushes against Dean’s, and he doesn’t look away, holding Dean steady. 

“If you had said something sooner---”

“If  _ you _ had,” Cas counters, and Dean shakes his head.

“I  _ tried _ . When we went back to Purgatory and I thought I might’ve lost you, I wanted to tell you, and you stopped me.”

“The Empty would have just come for me sooner, and then what?” 

Dean starts to argue, but Cas silences him with a thumb pressed over his lips. It’s the most intimate touch they’ve shared, and Dean’s insides twist as he thinks,  _ Almost a kiss _ , then realizes,  _ We could kiss _ . 

Despite this, Cas continues talking. “When would we have had the time? There was always another case. Another emergency. Another apocalypse to derail. So what could we have had?”

A lot of things. There are so many things they could have had in the spaces between cases and emergencies and apocalypses. Cas could have moved into Dean’s room. They could have shared hotel beds. Maybe gone out to dinner sometimes. They could have closed the gaping chasm on the couch between them on movie nights…

Dean blinks, transported from what-could-have-been to what’s-happening-now, and closes the chasm between their mouths instead. Cas’s thumb is still in the way, but Dean is just so relieved to finally kiss him that he doesn’t really care what, exactly, he’s kissing. Cas makes a strangled noise, clearly taken aback, and moves his hands to clutch at the lapels of Dean’s flannel as Dean crowds him back against the stove. 

Cas finally catches on, tilting his head and kissing Dean back. This moment has been a long time coming. There’s no rush to do more than just share presses of lips back and forth, and cling to each other. 

When Dean pulls back and takes a deep breath, before he opens his eyes, he says, “That.”

Cas sways a little, and they blink at one another, vision a little fuzzy. “What?” Cas responds, voice even deeper than normal.

“We could’ve been doing that.”

Cas drops his forehead to Dean’s shoulder and breathes. The room is still and quiet for a while, until Cas lifts his head again and looks Dean in the eye. “I won’t spend eternity regretting what might have been,” he says. “And that’s not what I want for you, either.”

It’s exactly the right way to phrase it. Not a command, or a request, but a clear statement about Cas’s feelings, in a way Dean can’t refuse. Dean is surprised, then surprised at his own surprise, that Cas just  _ knows _ how to speak to him. Cas sacrificed his life and was willing to suffer in the Empty in order to save Dean, and when he was given the opportunity to spend the afterlife in Heaven instead, his thoughts were still on taking care of Dean, fixing Heaven into what would make Dean happiest and leave him most at peace. If Dean allows himself to be swallowed up by might-have-beens, he’s spitting on all of that. 

Cas doesn’t want Dean to worry about regrets. Dean doesn’t want everything Cas did to be in vain.

“Fuck,” Dean says. The word pulls itself from his throat, like it must be spoken and can’t stay put, and the rest of the sentence follows suit: “I love you.”

Cas smiles like a sunrise, slow and glowing and intense. Again, he puts his hands on Dean’s face, gentle touches to delicate skin, and says, “Hey. No chick flick moments.” And when Dean laughs, the sound punched out of him with delirious giddiness, Cas pulls him in for another kiss.

\-----

Sleep is a luxury in Heaven, in the best way. There’s no physical need for it, so if, say, two people wanted to learn and please each other intimately for hours on end, they would certainly be able to do so. But, in the same vein, if those two people wanted to take a nap in the afternoon sunshine, curled up in each other’s arms, well, there’s no rule against it. 

So Dean falls asleep with his head tucked into Cas’s chest, warm and sated and safe. When he wakes, it’s because Cas is shaking his shoulder, and he frowns when he sees that Cas has redressed in those stupid overalls.

“We gotta talk about your fashion choices,” Dean comments, sluggishly sitting upright. 

“You still dress like a lumberjack, and you want to complain about  _ my _ clothes?” Cas shoots back. Dean frowns, ruffled, and Cas goes in for the kill: “Who do you think I learned fashion from?”

“Wow,” says Dean. “Rude.”

“I want to show you something.” Cas is smiling, just a soft upturn of his lips, and Dean’s chest lurches painfully with want before he remembers,  _ oh _ , they can have this. It’s that easy. Easy enough for Dean to reach out for Cas’s hand and kiss the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. For Cas to run a hand through Dean’s hair and return with a kiss on his forehead. 

“We’re gonna be one of those really gross, super affectionate couples, aren’t we?” Dean whines.

“We’ve earned it,” Cas responds. “Now come on.” 

Grumbling, Dean rolls out of bed and gets dressed. Cas stops him before he can put on his shoes, taking his hand and leading the way. 

Holding hands with Cas is nice. Dean’s never really thought about it before, but the way their fingers slot together feels secure. Like a promise. And their palms are almost the same size, so all the pads and lines sync up. On the rare occasions Dean held hands with a woman, his was always larger, a symbol of protecting her. With Cas’s hand mirroring his own, it’s like they’re protecting each other, like they’ve always done. 

Again, there’s a pang of wishing they could have had this before, in life, but already that’s growing softer. Dean doesn’t think that feeling of being cheated will ever go away, but looking at their hands clasped together, Dean finds it easier to focus on what they do have. 

Cas takes him to a door at the back of the library. Before he opens it, he glances back at Dean, like he’s nervous, and says, “I hope you like it.”

Unsure of what to expect, Dean just nods. Cas takes a breath and opens the door. 

There’s the back porch, with a white swing covered in throw pillows. A backyard full of plants, practically a small farm, which makes Dean smile. It’s very quaint, very country, very Americana.

Then, he realizes, it’s dark out. 

Like most things up here, night time is a choice. For most of the time Dean has spent up here, the sun has been shining. He watched a sunset with Charlie, out by the lake, but as they drove away, the light returned to mid-afternoon. Dean prefers it that way, for himself at least. He can’t know what others do at their own homes, but he likes the golden light and shadow, the settled warmth of a day mostly done. 

Dean steps up to the porch railing, curious, and lets his mouth drop open at the sight of the sky above. Stars. Millions of them. A rainbow of light and color, swirling galaxies, rings and moons and nebulas in blue and yellow and green. Dean has never seen anything like it. Even those nights out in the country, watching the sky with Sam on Baby’s hood, there was never anything like this.

Warmth at his side tells him that Cas is standing nearby, so he asks, “Did you make this?”

“Yes.” 

“Is this what night looks like for everyone?”

“Probably not.” Dean turns to look at Cas, who smiles sadly. “This is what Heaven looks like to angels. Humans have never seen it, so they couldn’t replicate it in their memories.” He pauses, and corrects himself, “Most humans, anyway.”

“It’s beautiful.” Dean puts an arm around Cas’s shoulders, then changes his mind and moves it to Cas’s waist instead, pulling their hips together. “Do you miss it?”

Cas watches the sky, and in this strange, colorful starlight, his profile is stunning and ethereal. Still an angel on the edges. But, when he looks at Dean again, his smile is more genuine. Fond, even. “No,” he says. “I just wanted to impress you.”

Dean grins. “I see.”

They sit on the porch swing, leaning against each other’s shoulders, holding hands again on Dean’s lap. It’s quiet and still, and the sky changes colors, stars and bursts of light flickering and darting from one place to another. 

Without thinking about it, Dean asks, “What made you lose your grace?”

Cas takes a moment. Dean can’t see his face, but he waits him out, until Cas finally says, “Do you remember Ishim? When we met Lily Sunder?”

Ishim who lied to his fellow angels that Lily’s daughter was a nephilim, to cover up that he was murdering a human child to punish the human woman who wouldn’t return his obsession. And Lily later gave her life to save Jack. “How could I forget?”

“I had an idea, then. What was happening. I wasn’t losing my powers yet, but after I learned the truth about that mission, what drove Ishim to do what he did, I started to understand.” Cas pauses, and Dean lets him gather his thoughts. The sky turns pink. A nebula blooms in a mist of gold and purple. Cas continues, “Angels aren’t capable of emotion. Of love. When they try, it… warps. Because they can’t understand it. Like Ishim, thinking he could own Lily.”

“But you…” Dean hesitates, tells himself the answer doesn’t matter, “Did you love me then?”

“Yes.” Dean exhales softly in relief, and Cas rubs his thumb over Dean’s knuckles. “I can’t know if I loved you before, but after I became human, once I experienced emotions for myself, there was no going back.”

“Even after you got your grace back?”

Cas nods. “Once I started feeling, I was never going to be a full angel again. It was just a slow saunter downwards instead of a rapid fall.”

“So…” Now it’s Dean’s turn to collect his thoughts, turning over what’s been said in order to find what hasn’t. “So if your love made you human, it didn’t just save me. It saved you too.”

The sky turns dark blue. Stars arc over the trees, leaving trails of pale green. 

“I know,” Cas says, “that you wish we could have had more. On Earth. I don’t disagree.” He lifts his head, and when Dean turns to look at him, again, Cas is glowing in the starlight, unnatural and alluring. “But this is what we have. I can find happiness here, if you can.”

Dean doesn’t have to think about it. He hooks two fingers behind one of Cas’s overall straps and pulls him forward for a kiss. Cas falls a little too fast, their chins bumping, but he adjusts well enough, fitting his hand to Dean’s neck. It’s warm. Safe. Peaceful. Like they’ve been doing this for years.

When Dean pulls back, he leaves a kiss on the bridge of Cas’s nose, then smiles. “I think I’m good, buddy.”

“ _ Buddy _ ,” Cas hisses, but he’s laughing when Dean kisses him again.

\-----

Time moves differently. Dean couldn’t say exactly when he first took Cas fishing, if it was the same day or several weeks before they spent an afternoon watching movies on the big screen TV Dean conjured up in his new and improved Dean Cave. If the first time Cas met John was the same week that Dean and Cas collaborated on a new house that belonged to both of them. John still isn’t sure what to make of Cas, or his relationship with Dean, but that doesn’t mean anything; even if time were still linear, twelve-hour days and twelve-hour nights, he thinks John might have been eternally confused by the concepts of angels, angels falling, and angels falling in love with his oldest son. 

But they’re happy. Sure, sometimes Dean gets caught up in wishing they could have at least  _ tried _ to be together in life, but Cas is always there with a cold beer and warm kisses. He’s steady, Dean’s rock, his port in a storm and his sunshine on a cloudy day.

Happiness can really change a guy.

Days, weeks, eons pass, and one afternoon, Dean knows. He heads for the backyard and leans against one of the porch columns. Cas is on his hands and knees in the garden, pulling up weeds. He never gave up on those overalls, and Stockholm Syndrome must still exist up here, because Dean has grown to actually like them. 

“I think I’m gonna take a drive,” Dean announces. “Wanna come?”

Cas sits up and smiles. He knows too. “No,” he answers. “I think it’s better if you go alone.”

Dean shifts. “Okay.” He starts to leave, but turns back at the last minute. “But you’ll round everyone up at the Roadhouse for when we get back, right?”

Cas rolls his eyes, but says, “Of course.”

Dean knocks on the porch column. “Love you, sunshine.”

He really loves the way Cas glows from the inside out when he says that. “You too,” Cas says. “Now stop stalling, and go.”

Dean salutes, and heads for the garage. Baby is there, perfect as ever, and when he turns the ignition, she roars to life, and the radio starts playing Carry On Wayward Son.

“Okay,” Dean says to himself. “Love this song.”

He drives. For how long, he can’t say. It feels like minutes, and feels like years, and yet he still knows that when he gets back, Cas will be at the Roadhouse, with Charlie, and Ash, Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Adam, Kevin, Jody, Donna, and Dean’s parents, and whoever else he can round up in their extended circle. They’ll drink and listen to music and laugh and tell stories, and everything will be perfect. 

The trees break around a river, and Dean pulls up to park on the bridge. He gets out and goes to lean against the railing, the sunset turning the sky gold. 

He smiles. He knows. “Hey, Sammy.”

When he turns around, Sam is leaning against Baby’s hood, somehow looking like the college kid Dean kidnapped from Stanford, the little boy who asked Dean for mac ‘n’ cheese with marshmallow fluff, and the grown man too old for his hippie haircut, all at the same time. Dean hugs his brother, and they both turn to watch the sunset.

“Man,” Dean says quietly, “everyone’s gonna be so happy to see you.”

“Everyone?” Sam asks.

“Heaven’s… a little different now.” Dean grins. “Mom and Dad are here. So’s Eileen.” He waggles his eyebrows, Sam laughs, and as happy as Dean has been, he’s still missed him. Soon, though, it’ll be like they were never separated. The new memories will meld with the old ones until they can’t tell when Sam was present and when he wasn’t. “Bobby, Kevin, Jody, Cas---”

“Cas?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Cas is here?”

“Oh man.” Dean throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “There’s so much to catch you up on.”

“Will we have time for you to tell me on the drive?”

“First thing you gotta know about Heaven,” Dean says, “is time moves differently here.”

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> The song "Never Enough" from The Greatest Showman was the inspiration for the scene in the backyard.
> 
> I've never written canon fic before and probably never will again lol so let me know what you thought in the comments!


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